Free All Hallows' Eve by Charles Williams Page A

else.”
    â€œWell, there’s this thing of London,” Jonathan said. “Wait, I’ll turn it for you.” He went round to the other easel, to the canvas on which he had not looked since the early afternoon because of all that had since happened, but now he did and saw it as he had seen it with Richard. He knew the validity of his own work—yet he knew also that he might so easily be wrong, as innumerable unfortunate bad painters had been. There was no way of being certain. But at least he believed that painting could be valid, could hold an experience related to the actuality of the world, and in itself valuable to mind and heart. He hoped this painting might be that; more he could not say. He saw beyond it the figure of the Clerk looming, and the window behind him, and it seemed almost as if he were now looking at the other painting made actual and released from canvas. The figure was there; the blank window behind; he could not at this distance and in this light see through it; it was but an opening into bleakness. And he himself the only other being there. He looked at the Clerk’s face and it too hung blank as the window, empty of meaning. “I am being a fool,” he thought, and looked, as he stepped back after turning the easel again, at the light on the canvas. He said, with the least flash of arrogance in his voice, “There! What do you think of that?”
    The Clerk looked and flinched. Jonathan saw a quiver go through him; he shut his eyes and opened them. He said, “No, no; it’s too bright. I can’t see it properly. Move it.”
    Jonathan said coldly, “I’m sorry you don’t like it. Myself, I think it’s better than the other.”
    The Clerk said, “That is because you do not quite understand the meaning of your own work. This is a dream; that other is a fact. It is simply I who have come. I shall give all these little people peace because they believe in me. But these fancies of light would distract them. There is only one art and that is to show them their master. You had better—well, I know how you painters love even your mistakes and I will not say you should destroy it. But hide it for a year and come with me, and then look at it again and you will see it as I do.”
    Jonathan said cautiously, “Well, I’ll see what Betty says. Anyhow I shan’t have much time for views of the City during the next year or so.” The words, and the tone, of mastery did not seem altogether unsuitable to the towering form; he himself was on the defensive. The very hint that there was much more in the other picture than he had supposed, that he painted more greatly than he knew, subtly soothed him. He was the more ready to owe Betty to a man who saw so deeply. He added, “You won’t forget to speak to Lady Wallingford?”
    â€œPresently,” the Clerk said. “But you must remember that you have a great work to do. When I am in union again, you shall paint me as I shall be. Soon.”
    Jonathan murmured something. The conversation was getting beyond him. He wished his visitor would go away before he said the wrong thing. The Clerk, almost as if he too felt that all had been said, turned. He said, “I’ll come to you again, or else I’ll send for you.”
    â€œI may be moved about,” Jonathan said. “We of the Services, you know——”
    â€œYour service is with me,” the other answered. “I or—or Betty will let you know.” His eyes stared out through the blank window. “What you shall paint! Trust me. I will make you … never mind. But put the other thing away. The color is wrong.”
    He gave Jonathan no opportunity for a reply. He went towards the door and Jonathan followed. At parting he raised his hand a little. He came out into the street and the moonlight and began to walk.
    He went towards Highgate and he went easily though at great speed, and as